The Teacup Predicament
by DrHoneyChuckles
Summary: "Realization struck him. He'd been shot. They'd just started a case with a sharpshooter. Said sharpshooter was picking seemingly random people off the streets. He could count the number of people who could shoot like this man on one hand. Him included." In which a certain sniper shoots a certain army doctor.


_Hello, everyone! As a reward for being my first reviewer on my fanfic, 'The Days After,' I let ButterfishJellyfly pick a prompt for me to write a one-shot for! Their prompt was the first line of this one-shot. I really like what I came up with and may turn it into a two-shot. Reviews are loved and cherished in my heart!_

_I don't own Sherlock, sadly. Season 3 would be out if that were the case._

* * *

It's just a dropped and broken teacup-why did all hell break loose?

John tried to remember what had happened just before this. Had there been any warning signs? He tried to back track Sherlock's movements, his attitude, his words, but he came up blank. He did the same for Molly and for Mrs. Hudson and even Lestrade. They were all over at the flat, having a bit of a Christmas party. It was the first Christmas since Sherlock had been back from the dead.

But something was wrong.

There had been something. He'd assumed it was the cracking of the tea cup, but it had happened before that. The cracking of glass, maybe. And then the tea cup was falling from his hand. He blinked down at it for a moment before looking back up. Everyone's eyes were on him. Sherlock seemed utterly shocked. Then all John saw was the ground rushing up to meet him.

He thought he heard a scream. Mrs. Hudson, maybe. Then it was Lestrade's booming voice. Why was his hearing so dim?

That was when the pain registered.

He felt hands roll him over onto his back and a cry of pain passed through his lips. He saw Sherlock and Molly above him. His vision swam and he blinked furiously, trying to focus on the people above him. Sherlock was obviously talking to him. 'What?' He tried to ask.

Sherlock moved his hands up to John's chest and pushed down. Hard. John felt his back arch on reflex and an inhuman like noise rip itself from his throat at the pain this caused. One of his hands reached up and gripped Sherlock's wrist tightly.

Realization struck him. He'd been shot.

They'd just started a case with a sharpshooter. Said sharpshooter was picking seemingly random people off the streets. John had a feeling that Sherlock knew who it was and he had had a few suspicions right off the bat. With the shots this guy was making, John knew he had to be military trained. He could count the number of people who could shoot like this man on one hand. Him included.

John's foggy mind couldn't hear Sherlock reassuring him. Couldn't hear Lestrade's voice saying an ambulance would be here in two minutes flat. And he most certainly could not hear Mrs. Hudson's crying. But he knew who it was. All the clues were clicking together in his head. He suddenly realized this is what it must be like for Sherlock when he solved something.

John felt unconsciousness tugging at the back of his head. He looked up at Sherlock. "M-Moran." he whispered. He focused hard on Sherlock. Sherlock leaned close in order to hear him.

"What, John?" Sherlock asked.

"Moran." John swallowed. "S-Sebastian Moran."

Sherlock nodded. He opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to change his mind. "Good job, John." He swallowed hard. Were those tears in his eyes? "Thank you."

John nodded, his eyes drifting close.

"No!" Sherlock shouted. "No, stay with me, John!"

John tried so very hard to stay awake, to focus on Sherlock's voice. But unconsciousness already had too firm of a grasp in his brain.

"John?"

'_Sherlock...'_

"JOHN!"

* * *

_ Beep...Beep...Beep..._

John pulled awake slightly as the noise registered in his brain. Whatever it was, it was annoying and he wanted it to go away. He moved his fingers slightly, trying to reach out for what his brain rationalized as an alarm clock. His brow furrowed with confusion when he realized he could barely move. The mere motion of moving his fingers felt exhausting.

"John?"

It took a moment for John to process the voice. Sherlock. It was Sherlock.

"Are you awake, John?"

It took enormous effort, but John forced his eyes open. He blinked heavily as his eyes adjusted to the light of the room. He looked over at a very worn looking consulting detective. "Hey." He whispered. His throat was dry and it showed in his croaky voice.

Sherlock smiled. "Hello, John."

John just blinked a few more times before he realized he was in a hospital room. He looked down and saw that an IV was connected to his wrist as well as a pulse monitor on his finger. Hospital… hospital… Oh. Right.

"You're at St. Bart's." Sherlock informed him. "You remember what happened, right?"

John nodded wearily. "I got shot."

"Yes and you nearly died." Sherlock accused.

John frowned before looking over at Sherlock. "Did you catch 'm?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered. His eyes glittered dangerously. "He won't be doing anyone any harm any time soon."

"Sh'lock." John narrowed his eyes at the detective. "What'd you do to 'm?"

"Nothing he didn't deserve." He answered, staring at the far wall with a dark look on his face. John frowned. He'd have to remind himself to ask Lestrade later. "You should get some rest, John. You look like you need it."

John's eyes drooped shut almost instantly. "You do too." He slurred out. "Don't… Don't beat yourself up… 'cause of me."

"Sleep, John." Sherlock said quietly.

John felt Sherlock's hand squeeze his before sleep took him once again.

* * *

The next time John blinked awake it was from a quite vivid dream of him and Sherlock solving a crime that involved time travel with the Doctor and two crazy American psychopaths. He reminded himself not to watch as much telly.

John turned his head to look to where Sherlock had last been. The man was lying sideways on the chair. His long legs were draped over one arm of the chair and his body over the other. His shoulders and head were resting back against the wall. His breathing was deep and even and his eyes were closed. However uncomfortable the position looked, Sherlock seemed to be resting peacefully.

"Thank God." Lestrade said as he walked in, his eyes were on Sherlock. "I thought he was going to drop over." He turned and gave John a warm smile. He placed a firm hand on John's shoulder. "How you doing, mate?"

John shook his head. "I'm not really sure. Just woke up, really."

Lestrade pulled a chair over and sat down. He froze when he saw Sherlock shift slightly. When the detective showed no sign of waking, Lestrade relaxed again. "Well the doctors said you're going to be here for a little while longer. For taking a bullet to the chest, I'd say you're doing pretty well."

"How long have I been here?" John asked.

"They had you sedated in ICU for about five days. It's been about two days since they've moved you to this room." Lestrade answered dutifully.

John nodded and looked over at Sherlock again, taking in the detective's exhausted features. He looked back over at the DI. "What did Sherlock do to Moran?"

Lestrade shifted nervously in his chair. He looked from John to Sherlock and back again. "Sherlock…he… I'm not sure I should tell you, John…" John fixed Lestrade with a hard look and the man sighed heavily. He scratched the back of his head. "Sherlock put Moran through a great deal of pain before he shot him." Lestrade tapped his forehead, between his eyes. "Right here."

John's eyes widened. "W-What?" he stuttered.

Lestrade put his hands up in an innocent gesture. "Sherlock's story is that he fled arrest. Which is true. My boys confronted him and Moran ran. There was just a lapse of about… three hours before Sherlock called in that he'd found Moran. And when we got there it was obvious that something else had happened to him before Sherlock had shot him."

John just blinked at Lestrade, not sure what to say.

"Luckily for Sherlock, the bullet followed the curve of Moran's skull. The bastard lived, but he won't be spending the rest of his life as anything more than a fried vegetable."

John released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He nodded. "Good, good. That's… uh… good."

Lestrade gave the doctor a small smile before standing. "You need to rest up. I expect you back at Baker Street shortly." He made his way for the door, but paused in the doorway. "Feel better, John."

"Thank you, Greg." John said with a nod. Lestrade nodded back before ducking out into the hall.

John sighed and leaned back on his pillows. He looked over at the sleeping detective and smiled. "Thank you, Sherlock." He whispered before drifting off to sleep once again.

The tiniest of smiles formed at Sherlock's lips before the consulting detective truly nodding off.


End file.
